Well, that’s what I kept telling myself. And, yet, there they sat. Taunting me with their hard, stuck on whatever-food from the night before, when I finally threw my hands up and said, “I’m done” and fled to the next level where sweatpants awaited me.
Is it laziness? I really don’t think so, and yes, I AM being honest with myself. Because: I often stay up later than I want to, straightening the couch cushions or sweeping up crumbs from the counter and dust from the floor. I look at a sink of dishes and cringe, I really hate it. I do, so much so, that I avoid them, only making things worse than they seem. People haphazardly tossing their plates and cups in there making a pile larger than it really is causes me a nervous habit of staring and turning away, staring and turning away. The ongoing inner struggle, I hate to look at it, yet I just don’t want to get all up in there. I am short so my belly always gets soaked by way of splashing water hitting a spoon placed the wrong way or by some ‘funny’ child switching the tap to shpritz mode. I agonize over it until I can’t handle it for a second any longer and then I give in, wishing I hadn’t avoided it, screaming inwardly – why didn’t I just soak them!?!?!
So I start – and about 20 minutes later I am covered in suds, having stuck my hands in the mucky water to collect the bits of leftover food blocking the drain, gagging from the stench and my belly all drenched. So I head upstairs to change out of my gross clothing and realize, the dishes are not the enemy…the laundry is.